


your love is always waking mine

by intybus



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Brief Silver/OMC, First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Prostitution, Silver thinks he’s curious but what he really is is In Love, post 310 bi awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 22:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intybus/pseuds/intybus
Summary: Silver has an inquiring mind: it’s his most valuable asset. He can’t help  but wonder.





	your love is always waking mine

**Author's Note:**

> This took me a month to write which may seem long perhaps but I’m a snail paced human so I’m quite impressed with myself that I managed to finish the thing before retirement!! It was intended to be a quick pwp but I tripped down a slope of sheer self indulgence. It's bad and super cheesy bc so am I!!! Know no shame. Treat yourself. 
> 
> (As usual, sorry!! for any mistake-- this was h e l l to reread and edit. Imma stick to 2k ficlets for now on thanks)

The tavern is rowdy, though not overly crowded. To a warm meal, most of the men preferred the lure of a warm body: more starved for sex than anything else, they’re satiating their hunger in the brothel nearby. Silver doesn’t blame them. It’s been quite some time since he’d last found solace in someone else’s company. Perhaps, if he’d still had two legs and a whole ego he would have joined them. But since he hasn’t and doesn’t really fancy paying for a pity fuck, he’s stuck in the tavern. With Flint.

Flint is a monk, he doesn’t ever think about sex. The only lust he knows is the one for blood and power— at least, that’s what Silver thought before knowing about Thomas Hamilton. Now, yes, he sees more clearly what Flint yearns for: justice and vengeance and possibly— possibly companionship. But even under this new light, Flint remains a monk. Never ever thinks about sex. Not for what Silver can tell.

He tries to imagine how much time has passed since Captain James Flint, infamous and dreaded, allowed someone to touch him in ways that did not entail attempted murder. Has he ever? Maybe Mrs. Barlow, but that would have been different, wouldn’t it? It is hard to fathom what is there to want, inside a man’s heart. He pictures any kind of love found there too akin to violence to be something worth craving. Possibly though, possibly… Flint asks him to pass the ale and Silver has to hastily blink the thought away. He complies averting eye contact.

Roaming around the tavern in retreat, his gaze catches on a young man. The main reason Silver notices him is his hair: red as copper and long, but not as long as his own. The color is somewhat uncommon, somewhat familiar. It makes him a bit nostalgic.

Flint is waffling about all the things they have to do. Silver is only half listening.

The man is not unpleasant to look at. Which is, supposedly, the point of him—the reason he’s languishing against the counter, lithe body well stretched, on display. He has smooth cheeks, but wolfish eyes: a predator disguised as a prey, lurking in plain sight. The last shreds of modesty holding back Silver’s tongue, whirl off the mischievous curve of his smile. There are possibilities there Silver intuits but doesn’t wholly understand: they make him restless. The curiosity he harbored and hushed for weeks deflagrates. If he doesn’t wish to end up smoldered to death by it, he must do something. He must ask. After all, he has an inquiring mind: it’s his most valuable asset. He can’t help but wonder.

Silver tears his eyes away from the red-haired stranger just to settle them on his red-haired—well, partner. Friend. Captain. Whatever.

Flint doesn’t exactly look relaxed, but he did make a positive comment on the quality of the ale and he is gulping down a mouthful of stew after another. The raking of men and artillery is going quite well, even though it could go better, Flint has yet to stop reminding him. Silver is beginning to think he is constitutionally unable to feel satisfied. Maybe he does indeed go around crafting his own tragedies just because he wouldn’t know how to exist in a universe in which he was condemned to contentment.

“I have a question,” Silver chomps on a piece of meat. He figures, with a war looming over their shoulders there won’t be many other occasions for him and Flint to indulge in a nice, private, convivial chat. “But I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. I’m just. Curious.”

Silver doesn’t elaborate further so Flint raises an eyebrow, as he licks some sauce off his thumb. “Well?”

Well. Silver takes great pride in his ability to bend thoughts and realities into the perfect shape for his tongue to hold— but maybe he shouldn’t. His entire vocabulary just turned into one treacherous mess, composed entirely by words so slippery each one of them ends up washed off of his lips before he can even start to articulate it.

He takes a swig from his glass, hoping to chug down, along the ale, every half-formed attempt he still has to make, before he can finally manage to express himself intelligibly. Somehow, it works. “Is it—different,” he asks, “with another man?”

Flint ducks his head as he resumes eating, eyes flickering away from Silver’s. “Is what different?”

Silver presses his lips together. He doesn’t think he’s being overly cryptic, Flint is just playing the uncooperative shit. He turns his face to the side, as he tries to keep his sudden annoyance in check.

The red-haired stranger is still where he left him, propped against the counter. He's leveling the boisterous rabble with a gaze that manages to look both sharp and idle. A pang of something hot, uneasy runs through Silver the moment he’s caught staring. The stranger winks, licks his lips. That would be such an easy route. Reasonably the only one he and his one leg would ever be able to wander across.

He lets his attention slip back on Flint. “That,” he says. And when Flint glances up at him again, Silver gesture vaguely to his left. A couple of tables away, a woman is straddling a man’s lap, and albeit they’re still some layers of clothing away from fornication, Silver hopes their brash display of fervor will make what he meant adequately conspicuous.

Flint wards off that sight quickly and pins him to the spot with a hard stare. The line of his shoulders stiffens.

“I’m merely curious.” Silver shifts on his seat.

Was it sacrilegious to juxtapose even just the implication of Thomas Hamilton’s memory to something so lewd? It’s entirely possible he misread Flint’s confession. Perhaps, his relationship with Hamilton had been pure and intellectual, a platonic adoration deaf to the weakness of the flesh. Perhaps, Silver’s own mind has been playing tricks on him.

Flint clears his throat and Silver refocuses in time to see him cast his eyes down. Flint’s thumb runs slowly over the rim of his glass. “For me, it was.”

“Alright,” Silver says, pointlessly. His curiosity hasn’t been sated at all, not even in the least bit. He wants to reach out and ask, how? and demand, show me. Of course, that would be immensely unwise. He is a man, yes, but nothing like Thomas Hamilton. Now everything is ten times more torturous.

“Hello,” an intruding voice says, and both he and Flint look around, startled. It belongs to the whore, who is now leering down at Silver, lips crooked in a beguiling grin.

Silver did this to himself. He should have been more subtle. “I,” he starts. What is Flint going to think? Why the fuck does he care? He doesn’t care. Why the fuck should Flint think anything? There is nothing to think about. It’s just a whore doing his job. Silver feels razor sharp eyes craving a hole into the side of his face. His gaze darts around. He doesn’t want to look at the whore as he declines his offer, but he wants to look at Flint even less. He gestures toward his plate. “I’m busy—“

The man doesn’t let him continue. He plops down next to him on the bench, plastering himself to his side. The last time Silver had another body so close to his own, warm and solid and promising, he’d still had all of his charms. “You’re almost finished. Bet now you’re looking for a dessert.”

“He’s not interested,” Flint cuts harshly into both the conversation and Silver’s breathing pattern.

“It ain’t your call,” the man says.

Flint smirks baring his teeth. He speaks pointedly, “I said he’s not interested.”

“No need to be jealous,” the man bats his lashes at him, then turns to Silver. “He can join us, yeah?”

Flint makes an unintelligible noise of indignation.

Silver blushes behind his beard. Flint would never— of course he would never. The idea is ludicrous, but it knots itself tightly around his stomach and it runs hot inside his veins. He steels his jaw and doesn’t answer.

“No?” the man says, “Maybe another time, then. Just us, yeah?” A hand lands softly on Silver’s thigh and he jolts in surprise. The warmth of it seeps through the rough fabric of his breeches. “Yeah?” the man inquires again. His eyes are green and Silver thinks, fuck it.

“Alright,” he says after a pause.

Flint starts speaking at the same time. “I suggest you go and offer your attention to someone who appreciates it.”

“It’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?” the man says cheerily, wholly unbothered. He strokes up Silver’s thigh, stopping just before reaching his crotch. “Shall we?” he asks, standing.

Silver seizes his glass and drains it in one long swig. He starts getting off the bench.

“What are you doing?” Flint’s tone his clipped. Clearly, he disapproves. Silver couldn’t care less, honestly— James Flint has yet to gain the monopoly of sodomy.

He shrugs, though his shoulders feel stiff. “I’m curious.”

“You never told me,” Flint says as their eyes catch for the first time since their meal has been interrupted. He can tell Flint is trying to read him. He doesn’t understand what he is being accused of.

“I just did.”

Flint draws away his gaze so abruptly, the sudden yank of it messes with Silver’s balance. “Go, then.”

Silver lingers until a light cough reminds him he is expected. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he says.

Brushing past Flint, he clasps his shoulder briefly. It’s intended to be amicable but under his fingers, Flint tenses impossibly.

 

Silver points his eyes firmly on the ceiling, sitting back more comfortably on the chair. He tries to will the whirling chaos inside his head into something akin to stillness, but he already feels defeated. Flint’s sour mood has rubbed off on him. The prospect of enjoying the blow job he just paid for has started to reveal itself as more and more delusional. The biting awareness that Flint knows exactly what he is doing right now won’t stop clawing at his guts, whispering in his ear he should put an end to this shameful ordeal before he makes himself into an even greater fool than he already has. He doesn’t want to think about Flint right now, but he is fucking everywhere.

“What’s your friend’s name?” the whore asks, breathing on his cock as he stroke it to full hardness. Silver tightens his grip on the armrests and stays pointedly silent. “You don’t want to tell me?”

“Is conversation required?”

“I’ll shut up, then. You can think about him, I don’t mind.”

Silver’s eyes plummet from the ceiling to glare at the man between his legs right at the moment he engulfs him in his mouth. The last words spoken hiss their echo at his ear, as he is offered the sight of a head of copper hair bobbing over his cock. His breath heaves, he doesn’t look away.

Flint’s mouth is made to bark out orders, to cut the air with daunting threats, to lure you in with venomous, self-interested rhetoric. Once upon a time, his mouth might have been made for this too. Silver digs his teeth into his lower lip and lets his lids flutter shut.

He knows how Flint looks like as he thrusts a blade through an enemy’s flesh. It’s a red stained image Silver can’t seem to reconcile with one of Flint thrusting between a lover’s thighs. Flint’s blood runs hot, there is no denying that. Silver saw it burn with rage and hatred, but maybe—

but perhaps—

but it is not unfathomable to picture it ignited by something sweeter, equally searing.

“He’d love to be in my place,” Silver wants to tell the whore to shut up and quit the mind games and just do his fucking job, wants to tell him that he doesn’t know what he’s fucking talking about. His tongue is uncooperative. “Was written all over him.”

Silver knows it is a lie, but nonetheless his spine shivers with red hot ripples of arousal.

“Oh, F—“ he babbles, biting hard on his lips, “fuck.”

*

Part of a quartermaster’s job is to listen to the crew’s grievances.

Silver massages two fingers against his temple. Each griping word uttered at his ear in the last week feels like a nail plowing its way toward the core of his brain. Slowly yet inexorably inching him closer to the point in which he will have no choice but to stomp on someone’s head again. The worst part of this is that it will probably have to be Flint’s.

He schools his expression in one of grave understanding, nods, says he’ll do something.

Pirates do have a tendency to dramatize their accounts, but Silver has witnessed some of what they’re talking about with his own two eyes. For instance, it is undeniably true this morning Flint gave a man who moved to carry out an order just a tad too slowly, a look so blood-chilling, so grim and hostile, it had taken four sets of very muscular arms to stop the poor bastard from throwing himself overboard.

Soon, Silver is going to have to defuse a mutiny if Flint doesn’t stop acting unreasonably, like a disgruntled tyrant, existing mostly in the seclusion of his cabin but still managing to hunt everyone with the ghost of his black moods.

Silver grumbles, but more than bothered, he is—curious. The timing nags him. This infernal spiral of sullenness begun shortly after their chat in the tavern. It isn’t an adventurous leap to consider it could have started because of it.

He tried and failed for days to shake off the thought. It settles a little more snugly against the walls of his mind each time he catches Flint brooding in his direction, then hastily averting his eyes. Each time Flint stiffly strides past him, barely acknowledging his presence. When their task demands it, they stand side by side, but each time Flint makes sure the space between them is never less than what is proper. No brushing of shoulders, resolutely no touching.

Silver tries to look at the situation rationally, as he always does, and so he wonders. Maybe, perhaps—he doesn’t really dare to spell out the hypothesis, just lets it float around and so it does, like fucking butterflies in his stomach.

 

He finds himself in front of Flint’s cabin, fingers clutching on the handle of the lamp that guided him out here. The sky is darkening rapidly, heavy blue chasing the Walrus on her path, ready to swallow her down.

The ocean fills his ears with its slow rumbling, his lungs with brackish air, his bones with longing. On his cracked lips, Silver tastes blood and salt. It’s too late for a report but he is not at Flint’s door for that.

No noise comes from inside the cabin, but a faint glow paints the floor in front of it of a washed out yellow. It is impossible to say whether Flint is awake or not. Silver knocks and opens the door without waiting for an answer. “You should lock it,” he says, as Flint’s silhouette looks up from his book and sighs. “Do you have time for a word?”

Flint drops his feet from the desk with a loud thud and sits up straighter. “What is it?”

The light inside the cabin is warm and soft, but Silver still has to halt and blink a couple of times, before he can navigate the room. Flint gradually stops being a featureless patch of darkness and morphs back into a man. Silver sits opposite him, notices a plate with the scattered rests of a meal and a bottle of rum only half empty. He is tempted to reach for it, but then he thinks better. “Is reclusiveness treating you well?”

“Do you want something or?”

“The men have been complaining.”

Flint has the audacity to frown in confusion. “About?”

“You.”

“That’s hardly news.”

Silver tilts his head briefly to the side as he concedes the point. His pulse hammers like battle drums in his own ears. “I’ve been noticing some things too.”

“What things?” Flint asks, guarded. He leans back in his chair and his face fades into a shadow.

“Your temper is shorter than usual.”

“My temper?” propelled forward by his scorn Flint breaks through the shifting veil of darkness. Eyes narrowed and biting, he exhales loudly through his nose. “Have you and your men ever considered that the problem may not be my temper but the sheer magnitude of their incompetence?”

So cranky. Silver scratches his beard, hiding his curling mouth behind a hand. “No.”

“Well, you should.”

“You’ve been awfully tense,” Silver says, gaze flickering away from Flint’s. “Joji suggested the next time we dock, we should see to get you laid.”

Flint blinks at him in disbelief, “Joji suggested?”

“Yes.” Silver pauses briefly for the sake of drama, then speaks again, aiming to make his tone light and conversational, “I think he may be right. Perhaps, you should join the men too, the next time they visit a brothel.”

“I think not. I don’t see any appeal in the prospect,” Flint’s voice is stern, his face is all shadows.

Silver knows he is walking on a blade, feels it digging in already, cutting his breath short. “How can you not? You’re made of flesh,” he swallows around the thickness in his throat. “When was the last time someone touched you?”

Flint’s hand resting on the desk curls briskly. “That’s none of your business.”

Silver oscillates between the instinct of fleeing and the one of pushing back. He searches Flint’s eyes for the right choice, but the dim light makes them hard to read. “You’re right,” he says, “Sorry.”

Flint keeps himself sealed. Silence stretches between them, candlelight licking the air and making it quiver.

“Do you want me to leave?” Silver asks when waiting becomes too torturous.

“You—” Flint halts, fingers twitching. “Did you enjoy your recent visit to a brothel that much, now is unfathomable for you that someone would wish to pass on one, Mr. Silver?”

Silver releases a breath burning with relief. He recognizes an opportunity when he’s presented with one. “I found my time there to be— adequate.”

“Just adequate?”

“Yes. It didn’t—do much.”

“You don’t find men’s company stimulating,” Flint states, words slow. Eyes seeking.

Silver holds his gaze. “I found the experience rather useless in regards to my attempt to establish that.”

“How so?”

“Well. I asked him to suck me off. But I already knew I enjoyed that, really.”

“I see.”

“So, you see, I am still curious.”

Flint waits for him to continue. Silver swallows and does, “ It seems to me, in the intersection of our situations could lay a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Is that so? What would such thing entail?”

“Well,” Silver speaks with his heart thudding in his throat, in his ears, on his lips. “You could help me satiate my curiosity and I could help you release some tension. If you’re amenable.”

“Do you think that would be wise?”

Silver smiles. “Not particularly.”

Flint says nothing, and says nothing, and says nothing, eyes roaming over Silver’s face. Silver leans forward on the desk, seeking more light. Flint breathes harshly, each intake rougher than the one before.

“I am,” Flint says finally. “Amenable,” he adds, standing.

But then he walks past Silver without looking, leaving void charged by his absence. Silver whole body prickles with it. He turns on his chair in time to see Flint bolt the door.

There, trapped.

Silver stands too.

They stare at each other from across the room. Flint’s arms are flat at his sides, his fists clenching and unclenching, grasping air. They could be grasping Silver— his skin itches, blood stirring widely under it. Nobody becomes as good at survival as Silver is, without learning how to negotiate with their own pride. He’s the one who takes the first step. It’s the sparkle that sets Flint on fire. He incinerates the space that keeps them apart in two strides—then there are flames lapping at Silver’s waist where Flint’s fingers dig into it.

“What are you most curious about?” Flint's voice burns against his ear, the light scratch of his beard is new.

Silver tilts his head to the side and presses his cheek against Flint’s, wallowing in the sensation and breathing him in. He hasn’t thought this through, he’s curious about everything. “I don’t know.” What he wants to say is: most of all, you. He kisses his way down the curve of Flint’s jaw, grazing his teeth across the chin. “This is different.”

Flint swallows. “Just say a word and we stop.”

Their foreheads bump while Silver nods. His palms run over Flint’s bare forearms, pulling closer. “Can I kiss you?"

The answer is delivered directly on his lips, just a tentative brush. Silver takes it upon himself to make something more of it. Flint opens up to him on a sigh, half a moan that makes the flavor of his mouth into the headiest thing Silver has ever tasted. He grips the back of Flint’s neck to steady his own balance.

They lick and bite at each other until everything else loses focus and the floor sways under their feet with the seething of the ocean or with the rising tides of their want.

Flint pulls Silver’s shirt out of his breeches to slip both hands under it, rough fingertips skimming over Silver’s skin. “Tell me,” Flint asks.

Silver wants to undo the legend of him, Captain James Flint: ferocious, monstrous, godlike—untouchable. His hands fumble with Flint’s belt, unfastening the threads of his myth, exposing the human flesh that lays beneath.

“I want to try—” Silver strokes him lightly, the hitch in Flint’s breath mirrored by the one he hears in his own voice. “I think I want you in my mouth.”

“Are you sure?”

“Seems like a good place to start.”

“Yeah,” Flint exhales ruggedly, lifting his hand to brush the thumb against Silver’s lips. Silver’s tongue darts out to tease it, gaining in reward a rumbling groan, “I’ve dreamt of it.”

“You have?” Silver grins, but it turns slack as teeth sink into the hollow of his shoulder.

“Don’t be smug.”

“So you dream about everyone else’s mouth too?”

“You shit.” Flint pushes him back with a hand on his chest. The rush of cold led by the absence of contact is startling and most unwelcome. Flint’s eyes scan feverishly around the cabin. “Sit against the wall.”

Silver obeys, awkwardly. Pirate ships are not designed to accommodate lovemaking. The floor will have to do— any place would do, he thinks, hastily getting rid of his shirt. He already can’t bear the feeling of it hovering over his skin, can’t bear to be touched by anything but Flint’s own skin. He watches, blood drumming as Flint loses boots and breeches, catching a glimpse of his cock, half hidden under loose fabric.

“One day, I want to have you on a proper bed,” he says, wits slowed by the sight, tongue made lax by too much kissing. He has no time to take it back.

Flint straddles him, going back to trail kisses over Silver’s jaw, mouthing across it until his breath ghosts brokenly right beneath Silver’s ear, “Anywhere.”

Silver scrunches his eyes shut and angles his head backward, offering up more of himself to Flint’s hunger. He fights against the needy pull to ask if he means it or if it’s just lust inducted nonsense, if this is all inconsequential or— “Come on, I want,” he mumbles. Flint’s thighs flex as he skims his palms over them, biting into the strong flesh with his fingertips. “Up,” Silver tightens his hold, demanding him to rise straight on his knees. Flint obeys, fast and pliant, steadying himself with a hand on the wall and raking the other through Silver’s curls, pushing them out of his face.

“I want to see you,” Flint says.

Silver barely register it, eyes locked to the cock jutting in front of him. Already fairly hard, already fairly flushed and just a breath away from Silver’s lips. That’s Flint’s cock, he almost chokes on the thought, this is happening. His stomach is a spiked mess of anxiety and want. Fuck, he wants Flint—and he is wanted back, at least for now, for this.

Flint scratches his nails over Silver’s scalp, slow and gentle like he’s soothing a skittish cat or something.

Silver breathes deeply through his nose and looks up to meet his gaze. “Any suggestions?” his voice already sounds ruined.

A slight tug on his curls. “Mind your teeth or I’m plucking them out one by one.”

Silver tugs back rebelliously and shoots him a mischievous grin. “I’ll show you my teeth.” He surges forward, biting on Flint’s thigh, dragging his teeth across the flesh, before sucking it hard into his mouth. The fist clasping his hair tightens and the air vibrates with a low growling sound.

Rather pleased, Silver pulls back. He is welcomed by the sight of Flint’s skin glistering wet with saliva, bruising where he has bitten it and flushed red all around, where his beard has rubbed against it. His cock throbs inside his breeches. Silver wants to mark him all over, cover all of him with evidence of what they are doing, make himself impossible to forget.

He kisses bruises on the front of Flint’s thigh up to his flank. Flint’s breath stutters a little harsher every time Silver’s hair or cheek brush against his untended erection. Silver takes note and shifts on purpose to make it happen again, and again. “You shit,” Flint says accusingly and Silver nuzzles a smile into his hip.

“Off,” he asks, rumpling up Flint’s shirt to expose his abdomen. He wants to continue nipping and kissing and teasing his trail over the taut flesh there without being bothered. Flint complies hurriedly.

Silver’s tongue traces its way along scar-knotted skin. That reminds him exactly who is tensing impatiently under his ministration. A dangerous man, well familiar with violence: accustomed both to survive it and to inflict it upon others. Yet here he is, being so yielding with Silver’s whims. The power of it makes him delirious.

He runs his pads over the back of Flint’s thighs up to his arse, kneading the plump flesh there. Flint’s hips twitch forward as soon as Silver’s teases a feather-light caress across his balls. “Fucking get on with it!” The huskiness in his voice makes Silver’s head swim, heat pooling low in his belly. This must be how Captain Flint sounds when he begs.

“Fuck, alright” Silver leans back against the wall and leers up at Flint, scooting down at a better height. It’s a bitch of a position, his back already hurting, but he’s never been more turned on in his entire life. Flint looks wild with need. “Come on, captain, tell me what to do,” Silver says, reaching for Flint, stroking leisurely along his length.

“Just.“ Even in the dim light, Silver catches sight of the flush creeping up Flint’s chest and neck. Flint closes his eyes. Lips parted but soundless, except for the rugged hiss of air rushing out of them. Words are failing him. Fuck, is Flint—shy? “Just do what you like.”

“Yes. Alright.”

Silver tries to be strategic. He rustles around the hazy depths of his brain for the memory of the best blow job he has ever received. It’s a fruitless quest. He has trouble concentrating on anything but Flint, so close to him he can almost taste it. So close to him, in fact, that when his tongue darts out to sweep over his lips in anticipation, it catches against the tip of Flint’s cock. It’s startling for both of them. Silver doesn’t hate the bitter flavor, enjoys the tingling sensation on his scalp where rough fingers are clutching at his curls and most of all, loves the sound of Flint’s erratic breathing. He does it again, deliberately.

“Fuck,” Flint leans forward, using his whole forearm to support his weight against the wall. Silver’s hand on his hip grips him more firmly, steadying him.

Silver drags his tongue experimentally across the hard length, and feels himself being trapped inside a paradox: the more he has of him, the more he wants. He grows greedier with each taste, with each grunt and each shiver he elicits.

He looks up through his lashes and waits until he is sure Flint is watching, before securing his grip at the base of the shaft and pitching forward to take in as much of it as he can manage without chocking. He breathes deeply through his nose, not accustomed to the sensation of being so full.

The tension collecting in Flint’s thighs is making them quiver and strain with the effort not to thrust forward. Flint’s hold on Silver’s hair keeps getting more desperate and Silver can’t help but consider how easy it would be for Flint to just rock into him and take whatever he needs to stop enduring the sloppy, tentative rhythm Silver is setting. By all means, the awareness should be alarming, but it isn’t: it doesn’t have any substance. As soon as the thought emerges, it is overtaken by another, sharper one. Blindly, fiercely Silver knows Flint won’t, would never. This realization is so much more terrifying. He trusts Flint. How reckless, how stupid of him, and how inevitable now it feels—it’s a lot to process. He pulls off, breathing hard.

Flint calls his name - John? John? - but he hasn’t the strength to answer. It doesn’t take long before a weight settles heavily over his thighs. “You alright?” Flint asks. His hands push dark coils off of Silver’s face so he can catch his eyes. “Do you want me to—“

Silver’s heart is thudding in his throat, he fears it might dribble out of his mouth if he tries to speak, so he brings Flint in by the back of his neck, sealing on his lips a confession he is not ready to make.

Flint withdraws after a moment, not letting the kiss heat up but pressing their forehead together. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Silver nods. He feels calmer, back in control. “Was that any good?”

“Yeah,” Flint says in the crook of his neck, burying his face there and breathing deeply. Silver kisses his cheekbone because it is the only part of him he can reach and runs a hand along the line of his spine. Fingers falling unhurriedly then climbing back one vertebra at a time.

They melt back into each other, moving like waves. Flint grinds down on him slowly, Silver chases the friction rutting up. Flint’s hot sighs ghosting against his ear riddle him with shivers. “Can I touch you?” Flint asks.

Silver says, “Please.” The end of it breaks into a groan as Flint presses a palm over his still clothed erection.

“I want you to fuck me. Is that something you—“

For a moment, Silver forgets how to breathe. “Please,” he repeats. A low, needy wail rises from the back of his throat.

At the sound, Flint bites down on his shoulder and Silver arches up to push back both into Flint’s slow rutting hand and the hard line of his teeth. “Tell me,” Flint rasps.

“I want to fuck you,” Silver says, mindlessly writhing against him.

“Then take these off,” Flint tugs at the belt clinging Silver breeches torturously closed, before planting a hard kiss on his lips, nipping at the bottom one as he pulls away. “I’m coming right back.” He stands, stoically ignoring Silver’s attempts to keep him close, and wobbles to his desk to rustle in a drawer, as Silver twists free from the last of his clothing.

Flint turns with a small jar in hand, but instead of going back he leans against the desk, breathing hard and burning Silver with maddening eyes.“What are you waiting for?”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I’ve told you.”

“Again.”

“I want you,” Silver says and watches the words hit Flint like a blow, the muscles of his stomach clenching. It’s a compelling sight that loosens the knot keeping Silver’s tongue from disappointing his self-preservation instinct. “I want you, I think I’ve wanted you for months, I’ve wanted you for so long,” he babbles as Flint strides back and straddles him again.

“You should have told me,” Flint says as he dips his fingers in the jar and brings them behind himself. “You should have—”

“You would have killed me.”

“No,” he growls.

“Months ago? If I had asked you this?” Silver wraps an arm around him to keep him steady, lips brushing against the hollow of his throat. “Would you have trusted me?”

Flint is panting messily by now. “You don’t need to trust someone to fuck them.”

Silver’s hand traces its way down Flint’s cleft, the path hot and slick with oil. He feels Flint moving, nimbly stretching himself open. “Yes,” Flint huffs, hips stuttering and Silver nudges a finger inside, alongside his.

“But I needed it like this,” Silver utters the words over the tender skin of Flint’s throat, hoping to smother their meaning. Hoping to impress it as deep as he can into him.

Flint clasp his jaw with his free hand, pushing a thumb under his chin. There is a storm in Flint’s eyes and one on his lips. He says, “Now you have it,” and Silver can’t think anymore.

“You too,” he answers, recklessly. He licks his way into Flint’s mouth. To be willing to get caged inside another person always felt like madness to Silver, he never longed to be anybody’s but his own and still he doesn’t. But this: Flint’s hand on his throat and the unyielding weight of his body and the one of their bond, still unnamed and unknown, tightening, tightening, tightening—it’s madness, Silver thinks, but this doesn’t feel like confinement. When they part to catch their breath, the words tumble out of Silver’s mouth like debris from a crumbling wall, “You have me.”

“Please,” Flint says, “enough.” He withdraws his fingers from himself and Silver follows his example. A hand coated with oil slides over his cock and he struggles to keep his eyes open against the sudden surge of pleasure washing over him. He grips Flint by his sides, watching through heavy lids as he sinks onto him, lips parted, brow furrowed. He inches down slowly but steadily, stopping only when he is flush against Silver’s thighs. “Fuck,” Flint gasps and rocks his hips. “Come on,” he urges, and Silver thrusts up into him tentatively. The noises Flint makes are encouraging, so he plants his foot on the floor and thrusts again, more firmly. Flint’s nail bites on his shoulders, looking for leverage. He lifts himself up and falls back down meeting Silver’s pace.

Their writhing grows frantic in no time, Silver is not going to last. Aware of it, he urges a hand between them, wrapping his finger around Flint leaking erection. “Good?” he asks.

Flint nods feverishly, pushing himself into Silver’s fist and back onto his cock. His thighs strain with the effort. Silver runs his free hand over the pale flesh, unable to restrain himself from pressing two fingers over one of the bruises he put there. Flint growls and clenches around him. Silver is almost over the edge. All it takes for him to fall is Flint’s dark voice against his ear. “You shit,” Flint says and Silver is shivering his release inside him. He is still chasing the last of it, when he feels Flint’s body convulse against his, hot stripes of come landing all over Silver’s stomach.

After what feels like a blissful stretch of eternity, Flint slides off of his lap to slouch against the wall. The air rushes out of them in rugged puffs as they wait side by side for the aftershocks to wear off. The silence creeps upon them like a slow tide. When they become aware of it, it is already too deep, too thick with the unspoken to feel comfortable. Everything seems different, now that they are reasonable persons again. The clearer Silver's mind grows, the more appalling is to act. He wants to know where they stand but the words to ask are rough to hold in his mouth, rougher to carve into sounds.

He glances at Flint, who doesn’t glance back. “That was educational,” Silver says to break the silence.

Flint doesn’t answer right away, but eventually, he meets Silver’s eyes. “And now what?”

“Well, I’m filthy so I am thinking about having a wash.”

Flint seals his mouth in a perfect line and turns his head away. Silver knows he hasn’t answered Flint's question. He takes a steadying breath. This is hardly going to be the more reckless thing he has said today. “I was hoping you would find the time to teach me other debaucheries in the future.”

Flint’s eyes darts back on him.

“If you’re amenable”

“I am amenable,” Flint says, half a smile on his lips. “Very.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://flintetc.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi!!


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